


Sur mes lèvres

by Sirrah



Category: Le Pacte des Loups | Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001)
Genre: But in a sensual way, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirrah/pseuds/Sirrah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only Grègoire de Fronsac sees Mani like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sur mes lèvres

Silently following me, always half a step behind; was what the people see of Mani in daylight. 

There were times when some saw a glimpse of raw strength radiate from him, the kind that wild animals, predators, possessed. It was well concealed under the European clothing, but every time it surfaced, it made a jolt go through me as well as any bystander. I have never seen anyone possess such a power together with that kind of grace and agility. Mani was a natural fighter and while seeing him fight, one would think there was no being that could ever beat him in close combat.

There were few of those who saw Mani in his natural element. Watching Mani listen the wind or feel the earth, one could do nothing but believe that he understood what ever it was that they were saying. And when seeing Mani together with wolves, there were no question if the totem belief of Indians were right or wrong. Mani was a wolf in human skin; a pack leader on top of that. 

But there was only one who saw Mani like this. Toes curling into the mattress. The life long running strengthened calf muscles spasm, for the effort of getting footing to steady oneself. Hard abdomen muscles clenching as they tried to force the hips from bucking up. The heavy rise and fall of chest, that went in rhythm with fisting and un-fisting of the long fingers. And only one heard the unfamiliar flow of language that escaped as a mystical chant between Mani’s lips, when ever it was not cut off by a moan instead. 

In the fading light of the fireplace, Mani’s reddish skin glowed in striking contrast with my lighter colored hand that roamed on it. The world had many addicting sensations to offer, but from all of them, Mani was the most intriguing, the maddening of them all. The scent of Mani was indescribable. It reminded me of woods and seas and rainy plains and morning mist. Even the scent of Mani was like he was one with the nature, like one of his wolf brothers.

It was probably for that reason that when I was kneeling between Mani’s strong thighs, I always met with a challenging stare of a snake. Mani was the spiritual guide of his people, a man with knowledge of medicine and magic. The first time I saw the snake circling around Mani’s manhood, I had thought of what could be the reason for taking a marking on such a tender place. Few days later I had asked it, together with asking for the meaning for his chest markings too. The explanation came to my mind ever since for every time the snake figure stared at me.

For when the chest piece was something common for his people, a symbol of his own tribe, bloodline and totem, the one on his manhood was something quite different. Mani’s position in his former tribe had been more or less the like of Christian priest. The less part was the powers his people believed he possessed. And the snake was the symbol of that. One might even take it as a warning. I took it as challenge.

Grabbing Mani’s thighs hard enough to feel the muscles pulsating under my fingers, I swallowed the snake wholly. I felt a vibrations running under me like a wave and crashing out in form of a soft gasp. I don’t know what the snake is feeling, but I can feel Mani’s racing heart beat against my lips that were tightly squeezed around the long, slender manhood. And as my lips whispered question against Mani’s skin, my tongue forced the answers out by licking along the length and sucking when reaching the top.

And the answers Mani gave were mixture of gasps and moans and his tribe’s language; the one that only my lips seemed to understand. My lips knew what the words meant and they answered to those calls. Leaving the delicious taste that was slightly dripping out of Mani, I traveled his body up, my lips marking and talking against his body here and there. I do not dare to leave a visible mark on him though. It is for the same reason I don’t dare to draw his portrait on a paper. I could never tie him to me like that. For I fear I would lose him then.

The Parisian oils that the noble women use to soften their hands would work to ease my way in him. But the stench of them would fill the room and I could then no longer smell the intriguing smell of Mani’s. So I brush myself briefly against him, gaining another gasp underneath me as well as some slickness to my own manhood. I add some more of my own saliva to the mix, before raising his hips up. Again some unknown words that lose their meaning to me. But my body knows their meaning and as my lips kiss him, I swallow the rest of the words. His strong thighs circle around my hips, the muscles clenching as they dare not to rush me. Like I’m not already moving as fast as I’m capable of.

I push inside him with one long, slow thrust. No woman and even with the little experience I have, I still dare to say that no man either embraces me the way Mani does. I cannot keep the touch with his lips any longer for an urgent need builds up in my chest and it needs to be released. A chant of grunts tangled with his name escapes between my lips as I start riding into him. And it is now my touch, my manhood that understands the incoherent words and moans of him. Or what ever it is they are asking, my hands and bucking hips seems to give the right answers. 

My mind has lost its trail of coherent thought a long time ago. I can only feel his silky black hair flowing through my clenching fist and his sweaty skin bucking against me as well as smell the unique musk that belongs to Mani. And all of those are yet buried under the feeling of Mani’s inner muscles clenching and pulsating around me. I can feel them cry in loss every time I pull back and embrace me tightly when I return. And it is that feeling that makes my stomach and balls curl up until there is no room to curl into and I explode. 

My head is still dizzy from the release but my body still responds to Mani’s words. My hips keep thrusting into him and my hand covers his and in unison we milk his manhood, until the words are cut and frozen to his throat and his body arches under me like a bow stretch to its limits. I can only drink of the sight of his face. How the pleasure colors it and the ultimate surrender makes his eyes shine unearthly in the slight glow of embers that are left in the fireplace. 

I, Grègoire de Fronsac, am the only one to see Mani like this. The only one who sees him.

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading my ancient works in hopes of getting the inspiration back to write again. All my works are unbetaed and english is not my native language. This is probably one of my best works. I had not written in years and suddenly just wrote his one night and it was perfect. Neither have I written anything since.


End file.
